


Bad Reputation

by neversaydie



Series: Somewhat Damaged [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Awesome Phil Coulson, Bipolar Disorder, Blood, Clint and Coulson Meet, Depression, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, References to Suicide, SHIELD, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:05:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neversaydie/pseuds/neversaydie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil has a bad feeling about this mission, like Obi-Wan levels of bad feeling. This is a kid. A kid who's taken out some of the deadliest men in the United States, true, but a kid nonetheless. This kid doesn't seem to give a shit what happens to him. A mad dog who doesn't know to get out of the way when a car's headed for it.</p>
<p>He's not afraid, and that's why he's dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Reputation

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for self-harm: injury depicted, non-graphic.

"C'mon motherfucker, show me what you got!"

The kid crows across the bar, slurring his words as a much bigger man takes offence and lunges for him. Everything is broken glass and sticky tables and shitty mullet rock whining from the jukebox, and Phil's starting to get a headache.

Phil has a bad feeling about this mission, like Obi-Wan levels of bad feeling. He's all for scoping out this supposedly lethal assassin before they decide whether to take him down or take him in, but that's not the vibe he's getting here. This is a kid. A kid who's taken out some of the deadliest men in the United States, true, but a kid nonetheless.

This also isn't the cool professional Phil was expecting. This kid doesn't seem to give a shit what happens to him. A mad dog who doesn't know to get out of the way when a car's headed for it.

He's not afraid, and that's why he's dangerous.

"I'm gonna kill you, you little punk."

Whoever large'n'scary number one is, he's confident enough in his ability to squash the kid flat that he's shouting about it to the whole bar. Phil sighs through his nose and takes another sip of his drink. This was supposed to be recon, and he really doesn't want to have to put anyone down tonight. It's supposed to be his day off.

'It'll be a piece of cake,' Jasper said. 'Have a few drinks, keep an eye on the guy and just see what you can see. No problem.'

He's going to kill Jasper.

"You are, huh? Big talk from a big man."

Without warning, the kid's produced a knife from somewhere on his person and slashed it across his own forearm. Phil's hand twitches towards his gun before he can stop it, but like the rest of the bar he's frozen in horror as blood drips and the kid laughs. It's a broken sound, like he's been chewing glass, and the man who'd been threatening him a moment ago now looks like he's accidentally tripped into the devil's lair.

"C'mon then, let's go. I got _all_ day." He throws his arms wide with a sneer, drops of blood spattering on the floor in a lazy arc around him.

"You're fuckin' crazy." The big guy's white as a sheet, grabbing his friend's shoulder and tugging at it, wanting to bolt. "You're fuckin' nuts."

"Ten minutes ago you were the one grabbing my ass. Still wanna fuck with crazy?" He fucking laughs again, and he's _gleeful_. There's a manic glint in his eye that clues Phil into the fact there's something else going on here. This isn't just drunken bravado, the kid's _enjoying_ himself.

"Man, you're the one who wanted to whip 'em out and measure. Your fuckin' turn."

He flips the knife over in his hand with practiced ease and holds it out to the other man, handle first. The big guy backs away from him like he's infectious, not like he's offering him a weapon. Fear is a greater weapon than the little throwing knife the kid's holding could ever be, and he knows it.

"You're insane."

The kid just smirks, like there isn't blood running down his arm, dripping through his fingers onto the dirty floor. Like there isn't a bar full of people staring at him like he's the antichrist. He smirks and stares and doesn't fucking blink and there's _nothing_ behind his eyes. After a few seconds it's too much for the big guy, who grabs his friend's shoulder again and hauls ass to the door.

"Fuck this shit." Phil hears as they pass him, sitting unobtrusively at his table. "Ain't goin' near that maniac."

The kid just laughs again and drops down on a bar stool, pulling a bandana from his pocket to wrap around his bleeding arm. The other patrons slowly go back to their drinks. Everyone's too afraid to tell the kid to leave, and he orders another drink as if nothing's happened.

Outside in the cold night air, Phil calls Jasper.

"We need to bring him in."

"How soon?"

"Couple of days, tops. Otherwise there isn't going to be anything to bring in."

"Someone gunning for him?"

"No." Phil pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose against the headache that still looms behind his eyes. "I don't know what I'm looking at here, but it isn't good."

"What do you mean?"

"Zero regard for personal safety. He's alone. He'll kill himself or get himself killed before anyone on our radar comes looking for him."

The emptiness behind the kid's eyes floats to the surface of Phil's mind, and he feels his stomach drop. Something bad will happen if they don't bring him in, he's sure of it.

"He's just a kid, Jasper."

"Alright, let me get onto the boss about it." Jasper doesn't ask any more questions; he trusts Phil's instincts about as much as Phil does. If Phil says they bring the kid in, then they bring him in. "See what we can do."

In the end, clearing the paperwork takes a week. Phil tries not to think about it, but the blood and the laugh and the blank eyes keep chasing down his thoughts, not letting him forget about their mystery assassin who turned out to be more of a danger to himself. So Phil does what he's supposed to do and waits impatiently for the higher-ups to decide to let him do his job. He doesn't like it, but he waits.

As soon as the order comes through, Phil goes to get him.

The motel room smells stale, like no doors or windows have been opened for a few days. For a moment, Phil almost thinks there's no one there, that the place is empty and they've missed their chance because the kid's bolted. Then he hears a quiet sigh and realises the crumpled lump of stained comforter is, in fact, his target. He puts his finger on the trigger of his gun and steps forward.

But there's no movement. The kid obviously knows he's there, but he doesn't so much as roll over to look and see who's broken into his room. It's not the same as the bar, there's no glee in this reckless endangerment of his personal safety. The kid doesn't care if he lives or dies, but right now he's not going to go down swinging. This is just apathy, and it rubs Phil the wrong way like sandpaper.

"You here to kill me?" His speech is slow, rough, like it's an effort for him to force every word out. "Go 'head. M'too tired."

Instead, Phil takes a few steps across the room, lays his gun down on the bedside table, and prays this isn't a bluff. He's working on a hunch, and while his gut hasn't failed him yet, he's still cautious. He can't let sympathy get in the way of doing his job.

The greasy blond hair and dark circles under the kid's eyes tell him his instinct is correct, and Phil lets himself relax a little. He sits down on the floor so he's in the kid's eye line, since it seems like too much effort for him to lift his head and look at him. The kid watches him wearily, glancing at the gun with some kind of longing in his eyes. Maybe he wants to find the energy to grab it, or maybe he just wants Phil to put a bullet in his head and let him sleep.

Neither one of those things is happening.

"My name's Phil Coulson, I'm an Agent of SHIELD."

"Clint." The kid replies, eventually, like he doesn't see the point in coming up with a fake name. Probably figures he's going to be dead in a few minutes anyway, why waste the energy?

"I have an offer for you, Clint."

Phil leans closer, doesn't flinch away from the crazy like the guy in the bar, and doesn't act like Clint's contagious. He looks him in the eye and speaks to him like he's not completely insane.

That's when Clint claws through his haze and starts to pay attention.

"Listen carefully."


End file.
